When I was visiting the Sheikh Mohammed Centre for Cultural Understanding in Al Bastakiya, our hosts opened their ears and minds for questions. Any question, no matter how naive or seemingly untoward, was acceptable to ask. One of the guests asked about daily prayer, wondering if most Muslims attend every prayer time (there are 5) every day.
The short answer was not necessarily. The longer answer was that it is in the benefit of the worshiper to do so. He explained that the purpose of prayer is to connect with god, to give thanks, to ask for guidance, and in general, to reflect on their current actions. For me, this equates to a personal reboot. And, at the time, I thought: yeah.
As a non-believer who finds no guidance in god and no usefulness or tangible outcome in prayer, what I can get behind is the idea of pausing for a few moments at key points in the day. To breathe. To ruminate. To center my thoughts. And, potentially right a mental or emotional path that has gone awry. Even just to unravel the tightly-wound spool that is my being.
I will probably get kicked out of the femme's club for this, and potentially chased out of town by an angry mob (comprised entirely of women between the ages of 25-49 wielding dog-eared copies of Fifty Shades of Grey), but I have to complain about the movie Silver Lining's Playbook.
I was desperate for any distraction to pass the remaining 3.5 hours of my flight to Dubai, after being fully awakened by a near miss with a well-disguised, egg-laden breakfast sandwich. Bogue. Shaken and alert, I turned on my in-flight console and chose this film, partly because it was the best option out of those I didn't want to save to watch on a larger screen, but mostly because I had heard drooling reviews of it.
As the movie progressed, I got increasingly annoyed by the balanced ratio of contrived:absurd story line. None of this would ever happen ever, ever, ever in any semblance of reality. The outrageous extremity of each of their mental conditions, the utter unlikelihood of an average man (prone to rage and bouts of uncontrolled machismo) agreeing to learn to dance, and then the head-slapping improbability of the ending. Honestly, it's stories like this that contribute to the degradation of legitimate romantic relationships. Or, more, what our expectations of them should be.
Jesus. I feel stupider for having watched this movie, and still pissed enough at those who recommended it to me that my fist involuntarily balls up when I see their faces. (Sorry if you're one of them.)
First warm day (in Michigan, anyway) this spring. The mercury didn't rise much above 50° today, but the windows and doors still begged to be open. Or maybe that was me begging. Probably.
My feet are freezing and this chilled Oberon isn't helping, but that's OK.
In honor of sunshine and weekends and all that is good in the world, I present for your consideration:
I heard on the radio as I was commuting home today that polygamy is illegal in the US. This surprised me. Not because I am surprised that our government would interfere in our personal matters, but because I didn't know that I didn't know that.
As the debates over Prop 8 and DOMA continue, it does seem logical (despite logic being so frequently absent in these types of arguments) that if DOMA is found unconstitutional, then polygamy should, in addition to gay marriage, be legalized. I considered this for about two seconds and I thought: yeah, I don't have a problem with that.
If all parties are consenting in a polygamous marriage, and no one is being abused, oppressed, or otherwise mistreated, then who are we to judge? Sure, we've seen many examples of just that happening, but as casual onlookers, these are the kinds of examples we are presented. Besides, is it not true (a point raised by the interviewee in the story I listening to) that many monogamous relationships involve much of the same dysfunction? Fucked up is fucked up, if you know what I mean.
I'm not saying I want to have a plural marriage (though all of my husbands would be exceptionally well-treated), but, seriously is this not a civil right like any other? To do as we will with ourselves and our lives? (Within the accepted reasonable limits, if I'm allowed to include those while ignoring that reasonable means many things to many people.)
Does anyone, especially anyone who supports gay marriage, disagree? Just wondering...
I exist in a world where my work is often critiqued as being too cerebral. To which I usually reply, "Que?"
I enjoy pumping my intellectual biceps and always feel a bit deflated when I am, in essence, ask to pretend I'm a 90-pound weakling. And, because life is not fair, I have moments of utter debilitation when I am charged with lifting the world above my head. It's a tricky business, this working for a living.
Today, at about half past 3:00 p.m., I received some distressing feedback on a project I've been working on since before I left for vacation that was due at 5:00 p.m. today. When I say due, I mean that The Rapture will occur at precisely 5:01 p.m. and we all best be caught up in the clouds.
The report was that a very important person who had yet to sign off had "philosophical questions" about the piece.
... ... ... ...
At 4:55 p.m. the files were uploading. I'd rather not talk about the minutes in between.
I read this wonderful article yesterday, and so far everyone I've shared it with has felt moved to contemplation. It is incredibly well written and thoughtful, plus, undeniably true. It surpasses in quality any content I might share with you today, and while it is a bit long, I hope you'll consider reading it.
Last night, Ben and I were having one of those pointless, the person who goes to bed first wins, kinds of discussions. It started as a benign conversation about misuse and/or misspelling of words in online or social networking forums. Then, the next thing I knew, I was accepting, and then subsequently defending (heatedly) the title of Grammar Nazi.
My totalitarian attitude toward others’ rights to use our language centered on the notion that if you aren’t going to use it correctly, you ought not have the right to it at all. That seems fair, right? After all, we all have access to the resources that elucidate all of our linguistic conundrums. We just have to choose to care. And to demonstrate the adequate amount of doubt and humility to recognize that we might need to refer to a higher source before proceeding.
The opposing argument was that we can’t all be grammatical gymnasts and that it is unfair to punish (or, in my world, deprive) those who are less limber with the language. To which I referred to my earlier point that the correct way is readily available with a quick query of The Google.
But, OK, I suppose I can concede that the average layperson should be given some leeway. After all, we all make mistakes. Myself included—and I would be in dire straits if my poetic license were suddenly revoked.
However, what about when a person in a much higher tax bracket and authority level than I am interchanges the words cite, site, and sight with the recklessness of Evel Knievel? Or, worse, has me as the only one who smells the smoke and discovers the carnage?
I have to be honest: I am starting to feel downright hostile about this whole writing every day for a year business. I'm nine months in; you'd think I'd have settled into acceptance at this point. But, no. I'm just angry. Seriously. Worst idea ever.
While I work out my attitude adjustment, check out these videos I took of the tanoura dancer at our desert safari. I had to take them in short blips, which feels a bit like stimulus interruptus. Sorry about that part.
(I will attempt to roll over to the right side of the bed tomorrow and we'll see how it goes from there.)
Something rather amazing happened earlier tonight. Getting ready to go out and wish my brother from another mother well on his new adventure, I pulled out the necklace I bought at Global Village from the Pakistani shops.
Out with it flew the earrings that the vender quickly made for me while I haggled with him on the price of my main purchase. (I actually did get fairly good at haggling there toward the end days, believe it or not.) Anyway, one of the earrings made it past my grasp and slid right down the bathroom sink drain!
"Oh nooooooo...," I screamed, with all the urgency of a fatal snake bite.
Ben came running with the $50 flashlight that I have been giving the hairy eyeball to exactly up until this moment of need. Accompanied by an equally superfluous multi-tool (says the girl with 170 pairs of shoes...) and a paperclip perfectly bent with said tool.
When I shined the light into the drain I saw first my prize, and then next to it the accomplice that kept it suspended. It was, in fact, my lost toothbrush (nothing but net, eh?). And had it not been lodged there, my lovely souvenir would have found itself settled in the limbo between my world and the watery beyond.
Eventually I fished it out. And bowed with new-found respect to my husband's indispensable tools. Oh, and also realized the true purpose of my toothbrush's absence. It was a long wait, comrade. But well worth it.
What a relief. I was starting to think I would permanently have the dumb.
But hope rose on the horizon today, when I shared my concern with a friend who just returned from China, Taiwan, and Indonesia. He's been back home for exactly one week longer than me and just started to feel himself yesterday.
I don't wish on anyone this feeling of outerbodiness, this spaciness, this lack of cognizance. Or having just enough of the latter to be completely and utterly worried about the future of my brain function. But my friend and I were able to communicate to (and commiserate with) one another the indescribable sensation of being not at all here. And, if we both have been experiencing the same anomaly that seems to profound jet lag, then it sounds like I will find my path out of the dense trees in the coming days.
While in Dubai, I got to experience a phenomenon known as ladies’ night. Sure, we have those kinds of nights here in the US, but this one was different: men were banned for the first two hours of the doors opening. Presumably so that we could get adequately stewed without all of those annoying distractions. And that we did.
We each purchased (rented, actually—except mine turned up later in my handbag...hmmm) a special plastic champagne flute for a mere 50 dirhams (about 13.50 USD) that very optimistically promised to never be less than half full. In doing so, it also promised that we would quickly lose track of just how much pink champagne we had consumed. Diabolical, no?
The music was all but deafening, and the couches were far enough apart that, between these two conspiring characteristics, it was nearly impossible to have a conversation with my fellow revelers. And, so, sipping and gawking were the favored activities to pass the hours.
As it is known that we all get more wise and insightful in our intoxication, I started to have some profound contemplation about how we handle ourselves when the urge to dance arises. The most inhibited of us sat on our cushions and wiggled to the beat. Occasionally an arm swing or a finger snap might slip in, but that was the extent of our mettle.
The second tier of would-be contortionists freed their extremities and succumbed to the rhythm, but only in the secure zone that was their chosen seating for the night. As if somehow they were protected by the familiarity of their belongings. I videoed one of these specimens, not to make fun (really, despite one of my flock cackling mercilessly in the foreground), but to document this curious behavior.
Finally, of course, there were the liberated. Those who chose the dancefloor with admirable abandon. That's where the living is, methinks.
Planning my visit to Dubai, I had a few must dos on my agenda. The big ones were a dhow cruise in the gulf of Oman and a desert safari (no matter how touristy I knew the latter would be). While they both delivered on their promises of wonder and beauty; fanfare and excitement, my true moment of stimulation came during our visit to the Sheikh Mohammed Centre for Cultural Understanding.
Barefoot and cross-legged on cushioned seating, sipping cardamon-infused coffee and sampling soft, sticky, sugary dates, my friend and I warmed our minds with the passionate and thoughtful words of our host, Nasif Kayed. We do not choose where we are born, or to which parents. We do not choose the color of our skin, or the social and economic class we are raised in. He said. So why should we look on one another with scorn for those fundamentals? Why should we not seek first to understand?
While I have only brushed on a comprehension Islam, I can tell you that it is nothing (really, nothing) that I perceived it to be. Or, most likely what you perceive it to be. This is why a center for cultural understanding exists and must exist. To help us navigate the turbulent waters of misinformation and find appreciation and respect for our differences. Or, at the very least, information about them.
That's Mr. Kayed, in the center, blending into the pillars of the mosque.
The truth is, I’ve been back home and re-acquainted with a consistent internet connection since midday Saturday. So why no blogging?
Well, I arrived at my house and immediately began unpacking, showing off all of the treasures I’d acquired on my otherworldly adventure.
But when I got to the bottom of my suitcase, I realized I had left something behind. I opened each shopping bag again. Shook out every article of clothing. Unzipped, rummaged, and re-zipped pocket after pocket.
Nothing.
My mind, that wonderful implement that conjures and schemes and ruminates, was still in the desert. Still absorbing the sunshine and brilliant blue skies. Still inhaling the mingling aromas of oud and sheesha. Still appraising ornate textiles and intricately beaded novelties while my sensibilities reeled. Still contemplating the duality yet coexistence of western culture and Islamic tradition.
It was a spectacular dream. But now it is time to awaken. And live the fantastic odyssey that is my own life.
I just said goodbye to my sweet baby & now I'm sitting at the airport waiting to get on a plane. I'll need to make this quick.
I will have limited access for the next 10 days, so I've decided to take my blogging offline for the duration. I'll be writing along the way, but won't have anything online 'til I return.
Off and on over the last few days I had CSNY’s “Almost Cut My Hair” in my head as I contemplated my appointment at the salon tonight.
I did cut my hair, and I don’t wonder why, to contradict one of the lines that follows in that song. But, in a funny way, I was nervous about it, and cursed myself a little for adding another reason for being uneasy to the next 24 hours.
I didn’t necessarily feel like I would be disabling my femininity by cutting off my ultra-long locks, but I did worry that I would make a poor style choice that I’ll be forced to accept every time I look in the mirror. For the next several months.
Change alone forces the walls of our comfort zone to stretch and crack, which can be painful. But awkward change, well, no one can really prepare enough for that.
Turns out nothing threatening happened. And, after, like, 27 passes by my reflection, I see that I'm still me; I just look a little different.
I cried today at work. It's been an awfully long time since I've cried about something not related to work at work, actually. Truth is, I'm getting a bit anxious about my trip. I'm prepared with everything I need and will be well taken care of by wonderful hosts while I'm there...but I will be away from my best friend, that is, my husband, for too long.
While part of my personal manifesto (only in draft form at this time) includes frequent and adventurous travels throughout my life, these are not part of Ben's master plan. Which is OK, except it is hard for me to reconcile my desire to go, to fly, to be free, & to seeeeee with my equal desire to stay here where comfort, affection, and companionship live.
I can't have it both ways, can I? But I guess I can have it different ways at different times. And find each of them enjoyable in their moments and not long for one too much while I'm in the other.
And, on that note, I'm going to sign off and spend the evening with my BFF.
Yes, you're right: I have been making a lot of tacos lately. Between us, I am indulging a fantasy of owning a food truck and taking my concoctions out on the road. With every success, I've become more confident and my fantasies of fame and fortune more outlandish.
And then last week I had a fail. Inexplicably, the Jamaican jerk chicken tacos I attempted actually kind of sucked (though the fried plantains were delightful. They were fried after all.) Since, I've put my feet back on the ground and, despite the reality check, the apron back on.
Also, Ben made a special dinner request for chicken tacos of some variety. And because I know that this is most likely his last supper before he straps himself in to the slow execution device known as 11 straight days of takeout, I'm going to try to make it good.
:sigh: Well, at least my kitchen will be clean when I get back.
Oh, also, I've decided to add an element to my recipe-making that I'm calling "Culinary Sound-System." That is, a musical selection to complement the meal. Tonight we'll be having: Tacos El Microfono
Here's what you need:
Olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1½ of tablespoon chili powder
½ teaspoon of crushed red pepper flakes
½ teaspoon of dried oregano
1½ teaspoon of smoked Spanish paprika
2 teaspoons of ground cumin
1 teaspoon of sea salt
½ of Aleppo pepper
½ teaspoon of black pepper
1 cup of chicken broth
½ a can of petite diced tomatoes (sorry, I know)
1½ pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, trimmed
Here's what to do:
Coat a medium skillet with olive oil, add the onion and garlic, and sauté until onions are cooked thoroughly.
Meanwhile, mix all spices together in a small dish.
Transfer the cooked onions and garlic to a Dutch oven, then stir in broth, spice mix, and tomatoes. Add the chicken and turn to coat.
Bake at 350° for about 1-1½ hours until chicken is tender. Remove chicken and shred using two forks. Stir in enough reserved sauce to the shredded chicken to add moisture without being overly juicy.
Serve on flour tortillas with shredded lettuce and cheese.
I went out on my own tonight because Ben is out of town and Nosferatu was showing at the UICA with a live music score. !!
I could have invited friends to go, but I really do enjoy being alone, except... well, dinner was strange. I decided on Big O's Pizza because it's casual and so busy that the other patrons don't really notice you enough to unnecessarily pity you and your sad little table for one. It was crowded and there was a huge party waiting at the bar for their table, so I couldn't sit there. Instead, they seated me in the overflow room right next to the only others: a dad with his two little girls who were very late for their 7:00 p.m. sharp arrival time. You can guess how I know this.
Somehow, through my own force of will, I became invisible—it seemed the best way for all of us to feel more comfortable. They rushed out by the time my second beer arrived, and, I was, for a few moments deserted in the quiet corner. I decided to remain invisible, which was evidently successful, because the four teenage boys who were seated at that same table next to me carried on as if they were the only ones there. This actually made me uncomfortable. I should go... I thought. So I did.
I passed the wig shop on the way to the theater. :pause: Anyone else think it is totally awesome that we have a wig shop downtown?
And the show was spectacular. Really, you should look into this Andrew Alden Ensemble. I heard they also scored their own version of Night of the Living Dead. Whaaa...?
On my way back to my parking spot, I was, again, totally alone. The sound of my heels echoed against the bricks of the old buildings and off the manhole covers in the streets. Huh. Where did everyone go?
I should have learned on my last overseas trip, when my luggage was lost for days, that I truly need a fraction of the items currently in my suitcase. But, no, I have learned nothing.
A friend of mine, who has traveled extensively and once took only a carry-on-sized bag on a two-week trip to Morocco, has it down to a simple mathematical equation that makes perfect sense when added up. She spent a good half hour yesterday trying to get through to me. Outwardly, I nodded, I smiled, I agreed, but a willful voice inside made such a clamor of denial that I scarcely heard a word.
In my comfort zone, I have one fewer pairs of shoes packed than days I will be there. Also packed are four pairs of pants, three skirts, and three dresses. Plus, three cardigans, two swimsuits, and an assortment of tops ranging from sleeved to sleeveless. Oh, and five headscarves.
The only items I could be reasonable about—underwear, which I need exactly 9 pairs of—I haven’t even pulled from my drawer for deployment yet. (Note to self: there bodes a great potential that I will find myself well-ventilated for the warm desert air.)
Anyway, tonight I had a moment of clarity and, you know, just to see what would happen, I did an experiment: I cut the shoes by a third(ish), and everything else by half (except the aforementioned unmentionables, of course). It looks OK, except I feel a bit lightheaded right now...
